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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28306659">A Different Kind of Brave</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/pools_of_venetianblue/pseuds/pools_of_venetianblue'>pools_of_venetianblue</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Car Trouble, Denmark Street Discord Sekrit Santa 2020, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff and Smut, Huddling For Warmth, New Year's Resolutions, Robin Ellacott's Land Rover, there was only one blanket</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 15:07:16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,436</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28306659</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/pools_of_venetianblue/pseuds/pools_of_venetianblue</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The Land Rover has broken down in the middle of a snowstorm, there's only one emergency blanket, and Robin is thinking about her New Year's resolutions...</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>71</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>167</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Denmark Street Discord Sekrit Santa 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeeBeeStrellacott/gifts">SeeBeeStrellacott</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Merry Christmas SeeBeeStrellacott, from your Sekrit Santa! </p><p>Fic prompts: </p><p>one bed (...if we count the backseat of the Land Rover as a bed)</p><p>holiday fluff (if one squints a little...)</p><p>&amp; caught in compromising positions (coming in the second chapter, definitely before New Year's... stay tuned!)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Robin climbed up into the Land Rover and slammed the door behind her. She blew on her hands, numb with cold, and rubbed them together; the temperature inside the car was barely warmer than that outside, and dropping rapidly the longer they sat in the darkening night and swirling snow.</p><p>“Any luck?” Strike said, his arms holding his enormous coat folded tightly around him. Robin shook her head.</p><p>“It’s the radiator,” she said glumly. “It’s completely buggered. Blown open. We’ll have to get a tow. Did they say how long it would be?”</p><p>“Er…”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“The local place is short staffed. Holidays, apparently. And with the storm, they’re backed up…” Strike trailed off, and the expression on his face made Robin’s stomach sink with a sense of impending doom.</p><p>“How long?”</p><p>“Six hours. At least.” Strike sighed. “I tried calling around. Three other places, one of them not even open. None of them can do better.”</p><p>Robin digested this news in silence as the wind rattled the windows of the ancient car and the snow swirled past the windshield. The country lane on which they’d broken down was hemmed in close with trees, making the drawing evening even darker.</p><p>“We could walk out,” Strike offered. “It’s only a couple miles to the next village, we could find a B&amp;B—”</p><p>“Don’t be ridiculous,” Robin said flatly. “You wouldn’t make it, not with your leg in this weather.” Strike scowled, but said nothing. Robin took a deep breath, closing her eyes and thinking.</p><p>“Barclay,” she said suddenly. At Strike’s quizzical look, she explained, “He’s on the rota tonight to be watching Lunkhead, so he’ll be in his car. We can call him off surveillance, he can drive up to meet us here.”</p><p>“In this?” Strike said skeptically. “He’d be ages getting here.”</p><p>“Do you have a better idea?”</p><p>Strike had to admit that he did not. As he keyed Barclay’s number into his mobile, Robin clambered into the back of the Land Rover, rummaging through the storage compartment bolted to the side of the carriage for the emergency road kit that she’d stashed there when her mother had first gifted her the ancient car. Silently thanking her past self for her foresight, she unzipped the case and pulled out the emergency foil blanket, shaking it out from its folds.</p><p>“He’s on the way,” Strike said from the front of the car. “What are you doing?”</p><p>“It’s like you said, even Barclay will be hours still,” Robin said. “I don’t fancy freezing to death before he gets here.”</p><p>“You haven’t got any food stashed in there, have you?” Strike said, without much hope, as he watched her sort through the contents of the emergency kit. They had finished the packet of biscuits halfway into the trip up, and had eaten dinner in a pub before leaving for the long drive home, but his stomach was already rumbling ominously.</p><p>“Sorry.” Robin was now pushing the back bench of the car to lie flat and spreading the shiny foil blanket over it. Strike watched her, trying to ignore the chill that was creeping into him. The wind and snow looked to be continuing unabated; the temperature in the car would soon be genuinely uncomfortable, he thought, a bit uneasy. </p><p>“I think we’ll both fit. Just.” Robin said, leaning back on her heels to examine her work with a critical eye. It took Strike a moment to understand what it was she was saying.</p><p>“Both of us?” he said dumbly. He had already resigned himself to a chilly, sleepless night in the front seat, hoping that his great coat would see him through. She couldn’t possibly be suggesting what he thought she was suggesting.</p><p>“We’ll have to share,” Robin said. Her voice was matter-of-fact, but Strike thought he could see her cheeks darkening, even in the low light of the cab. “I’ve only got the one blanket. You can’t sit up there all night, you’ll freeze.”</p><p>“But…” Strike hesitated. He didn’t know how to articulate his objections, which were principally down to just how much his desire had surged at the prospect of an evening spent with Robin’s body pressed up tightly against his own, in the dark and quiet and solitude of the swirling snow. Robin was looking expectantly at him. He sighed.</p><p>“Alright,” he said heavily. “Let me just—” he gestured vaguely to the deserted road outside, and without waiting for a response swung himself down out of the car, slamming the door behind him. He needed a smoke and a piss, and if he was going to be spending the evening cuddled under a blanket with Robin, he would need a moment alone to brace himself.</p><p>By the time he climbed clumsily into the back of the Land Rover, doing his best to shake off the snow clinging to his boots, he had resolved to remain calm, to stay professional. He was trained to handle such situations, emergencies like this; it was no different than many of the nights he’d found himself sleeping in rough quarters in the SIB.</p><p>No different. But as he closed the door behind himself, the already small space of the car seemed to shrink. Robin was sitting upright on the bench she had prepared for them. She had taken off her puffy jacket, folded and arranged it on the end of the bench as a makeshift pillow. Though the cab was shadowed, she was close enough that he could read the tension in the set of her shoulders, could see the flash of white that meant she was worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. </p><p>He took a deep breath. There was nothing for it. He moved to sit beside her, stooping almost double to save his head from banging on the low roof of the car.</p><p>“D’you mind if I take this off?” he said, gesturing at his leg, startling Robin out of her thoughts.</p><p>“Oh! Of course not,” she said hastily, looking away so as to give him whatever privacy she could in the cramped space. She had felt calm enough while he was outside, while she could focus on the practical preparations for bedding down in the back of the car, but now—now that he was sitting close enough on the bench beside her that she could feel the heat of his body through her thin jumper, now that there was nothing left to do but lie down beside him, to let that heat bleed into her and chase the chill from her bones…</p><p>Robin snapped her thoughts back to the present and, realizing that she was chewing at her thumbnail, dropped her hand into her lap. </p><p>Beside her, Strike had finished removing his leg, leaning forward slightly to place it on the floor beside the bench. His trouser leg dangling, he set to shrugging off his coat, which he laid aside, with a vague thought of using it to cover them both, adding a layer of warmth to the foil blanket.</p><p>“So... how’re we doing this, then?” Strike glanced skeptically down at the bench; Robin could hardly blame him. She had spent the night curled up on the bench before, on the trip they had made together to Barrow. There had barely been room for her then, and Strike had been in the front seat. With both of them…it would be a very tight fit.</p><p>“We’ll just have to manage,” Robin said bravely. She held up the edge of the foil blanket in invitation. “Go on, then,” she urged Strike, who grinned ruefully at her before shuffling his bulk forward and under.</p><p>After some experimentation, and the unpleasant discovery that Strike was unable to stretch out to his full height in the cramped car, forcing him to pull up his knees, they settled in the only comfortable position available to them: pressed together tightly like a pair of nesting commas, Robin’s back to Strike’s chest. He pillowed his head on her coat, while she used his bicep for hers; his other arm, after a moment of stiff hesitation, he wrapped over her waist, his hand resting on her stomach, only the thin fabric of her cream jumper separating her skin from his.</p><p>They lay in silence, except for the howling wind and the foil blanket above them, which crinkled loudly in protest at the smallest movement. Robin stared into the darkness, wide awake; the weight of Strike’s arm, the solid bulk of him pressing into her, his breath warm on her neck—every point of contact was setting the nerves under her skin alight with a quivering sort of excitement. There was no chance of falling asleep, not when Strike’s thumb was stroking across her sweater like that; the lightest and smallest of touches, moving only millimeters—unconsciously done, no doubt, yet stoking a fire deep within her that threatened to break its bounds, to burn her to cinders. She lay stock still, tried to control her breathing, tried to focus on anything but the sensations overtaking her traitorous body.</p><p>Strike, too, had never in his life been more awake, caught between agony and bliss at the feel of Robin in his arms, at the faintest trace of Narciso drifting over the warm scent of her hair and skin, the consciousness that his hand was resting bare inches from the curve of her breasts; it was torture, sweet torture, and it was only through gritted teeth and a mental recitation of Latin verb declensions that he was able to keep his body under control. But then she sighed, and shifted, and her arse pressed back against him, and he lost control completely, his cock stirring and swelling; he cursed inwardly and shifted his hips as far back as he could, praying that she hadn’t noticed.</p><p>“What’s your New Year’s resolution?” Robin said abruptly, breaking the silence.</p><p>Strike, glad of a thought to focus on that didn’t involve Robin’s arse or his misbehaving cock, considered the question.</p><p>“Dunno. Hadn’t thought about it,” he said, after some moments of fruitless deliberation. “The smoking, I suppose.”  </p><p>“You said the exact same thing last year,” Robin replied, laughter in her voice, and Strike grinned. That particular resolution had lasted about five minutes into his New Year’s Day hangover, as in fact had every half-hearted resolution he’d ever made.</p><p>(Excepting, of course, the ones that had involved not making a move on his business partner and best friend. He’d managed to keep those, by dint of Herculean effort, though he was starting to wonder <em> why</em>.)</p><p>“How about you?” he asked, in the spirit of reciprocation, though there was very little about Robin that could be improved upon in his opinion. There was a moment’s silence; Strike could feel Robin breathing under the palm of his hand. If he shifted his head just a little, he would be able to brush his lips against the soft skin of her neck. He closed his eyes, and waited.</p><p>“I think… I’d like to be more brave,” she said finally.</p><p>“What d’you mean, brave?”</p><p>“I mean, you know, bravery. Being more courageous. Doing things that scare me.”</p><p>“That’s rubbish,” he protested, laughing.</p><p>“It’s not,” she protested, twisting in his arms to look at him. “It’s a proper resolution.”</p><p>“Come off it,” Strike said, pulling his arm from underneath her head to prop himself up on one elbow.</p><p>“What’s wrong with it?” She said, hurt.</p><p>“Well, for starters,” he said, “You’re bloody brave enough already.”</p><p>“No, I’m not.” Robin’s voice was soft; Strike wished he could see her face more clearly, catch her expression.</p><p>“Of course you are,” Strike said, incredulous. “You concussed yourself catching a killer. You were held at gunpoint and kept your cool. You fought off the Shacklwell Ripper, for fuck’s sake.”</p><p>“None of that’s—”</p><p>“Robin,” he cut across her protests, squeezing his arm around her waist. “You walked straight into a confrontation with a violent pedophile, because there was a little girl who needed saving. Because it was the right thing to do.”</p><p>“That’s not the kind of brave I mean,” Robin said after a long moment of silence, into the dark. “I want to be brave enough to…” She took a deep breath, and then in a rush continued, “to go after the things I really want.” </p><p>“What are those, then?” Strike was curious, now, about what she could possibly be afraid of attempting, curious enough to nearly forget his arousal of a moment ago. “Because I can’t imagine you not achieving anything you set your mind to. You put the rest of us lazy slobs to shame.”</p><p>“Well…” she hesitated and beneath his arm he felt her ribs expand as she took a deep breath. “I’ve been wondering if I shouldn’t try for my degree again. It’d be useful for the agency, I think.” Her head turned back toward him, so that he could see her profile, the curve of her cheek and tip of her nose, outlined through the grey shadows cast by the weak moonlight glinting off the falling snow.</p><p>He gave a rumble of assent. “What else? You said things. Plural.”</p><p>The silence stretched so long this time that he thought she wasn’t going to answer. He was still propped up on one elbow, leaning over her; she turned a little, looking straight up at him, then: </p><p>“This,” she whispered, and craned her neck up to press her lips to his.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Well, here we are! Only... two and a half months late? Let's just call it a Sekrit-St-Patrick's-Day present, shall we?</p><p>A million thanks to BlueRobinWrites for her wonderful beta work, particularly in the area of writing kissing, at which she is the queen!</p><p>Hope you enjoy :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The kiss was brief, over almost before it began. Strike barely had a chance to register the feeling of Robin’s lips against his before she was pulling away from him and he was left paralyzed, propped up on his elbow, the warmth on his lips from the soft press of hers quickly fading, his mind blank except for a sort of thrilled disbelief as he tried to decide whether or not he was awake, whether Robin had really just kissed him, or if this was the prelude to one of those dreams that had lately left him achingly aroused and uncomfortably guilty in equal parts.</p><p>There was a moment of charged silence as Strike stared down at Robin’s face, trying to trace the outline of her expression in the deep shadows; he could see nothing except the glint of moonlight reflecting off her eyes, opened wide and staring back at him. He parted his lips, knowing he must say something, anything.</p><p>“Robin,” he said, his voice cracking and strangled, and he paused, searching for the right words.</p><p>“I’m so sorry,” she blurted out before he could gather his thoughts, “I shouldn’t have, that was—”</p><p>“Robin,” he tried again, his voice slightly stronger, but she was turning away from him, hiding her face in her hands as she apologized desperately, a flood of words from between her fingers.</p><p>“Robin,” he said a third time and, finding that he could move again, reached down to grasp her arm and turn her gently back towards him.</p><p>Robin offered no resistance, embarrassment roiling hot in her stomach, her throat tight. She didn’t know what had come over her, why she had done something so monumentally stupid. He was going to say something kind to let her down easy. He would say that they needed to put the business first, perhaps; a compassionate lie to spare her the humiliation of summary rejection. </p><p>“Will you look at me?” Strike asked, his voice soft, soothing.</p><p>If she looked at him, she would see the devastating kindness in his eyes. He would see the tears of shame and pain shining in hers. She shook her head. </p><p>“No,” she said, her voice muffled from behind her hands.</p><p>“Please?” he said softly, and then when she didn’t respond he leaned down and brushed his lips against her forehead, whispering her name. </p><p>Strike could feel her body stiffen against him, could hear her breath hitch in her chest. He wanted to feel that breath, to taste it. He moved down an inch, pressing another tender kiss against her fingers where they covered her eyes - one, and then the other, and then down again, so that his lips caressed the back of her hand as he whispered, “Please, Robin, look at me,” and then hovered, waiting, as her chest below him heaved. </p><p>She slowly lowered her hands, and he whispered her name once more before his lips brushed tentatively against hers, more of a statement than a kiss. A reassurance; an affirmation. </p><p>She sighed, relaxing against him completely, as he nipped her full lower lip between his own. He couldn’t stifle his soft groan as she kissed him back, her tongue darting out as though to lick her own lip, catching his as he changed the angle of the kiss. She twisted to press the length of her body against him as he tasted her fully for the first time, her tongue slipping against his while she struggled to get closer to him in the small confines of the truck. </p><p>Robin’s embarrassment of just a moment ago, the fear that she’d ruined everything, was burning away to ash under his lips, replaced with frantic need.  She pulled at Strike’s shoulders, wanting him closer, wanting to feel his weight pressing her down against the seat; her legs were twisted awkwardly, so she rolled over onto her back, hiking up her knees as Strike shifted his bulk between them, and she had a moment of delicious ecstasy before he broke away from her kiss, his face twisted in a grimace.</p><p>“Shit,” he grunted.</p><p>Strike’s left leg was crammed awkwardly up against the wall of the car behind him, and as he shifted his weight onto his right knee, trying to maneuver in the cramped space, a sharp pain shot up his thigh. He dropped his head forward against the seat beside her shoulder in frustration</p><p>“Cormoran?” she asked, uncertainly, suddenly afraid that he was coming to his senses, that maybe he’d thought better of this recklessness. </p><p>“Sorry,” he panted. “Bloody leg—can’t fit.”</p><p>“Oh,” she said, glancing down. “Maybe…if we—” She pushed herself up, twisting to roll over, as Strike shifted again; their foreheads banged together, and the burst of pain made Robin slip back with a gasp as Strike cursed.</p><p>“Shit. Sorry,” he said, and despite the pain in her head and the frustrated desire pulsing between her legs, she began to giggle. After a moment, Strike began to laugh with her, and then leaned down to press his forehead gently against hers in apology. He kissed her again, a firm press of his lips, then pulled her back into their original position; but this time with both his arms were wrapped firmly around her, and his face pressed into her neck. Robin sighed, melting back into him.</p><p>“I was wrong, before. About your resolution,” he murmured into her ear. “It’s a good resolution. Really excellent.”</p><p>“Yeah?” she breathed, the pain in her forehead fading, her burning need for him banked to glowing embers as she basked in his embrace.</p><p>“Yeah.” He pressed a tender kiss to her cheek. “And you sorted it three days before the actual new year, too. Must be a record,” he added with a chuckle. “You really are exceptional, aren’t you?” </p><p>He could feel her stomach shake under his hand as she laughed with him.</p><p>“I suppose I’ll have to come up with a new one now,” she said thoughtfully, tapping her fingers against his arm. “Doesn’t count as a resolution if it’s not in the proper year, does it?”</p><p>“Take the win, Ellacott,” he said, a warm chuckle in his voice, with a nip of his teeth on her earlobe for emphasis.</p><p>She gasped as her arousal flared sharply back to life.</p><p>“Is that OK?” he whispered huskily.</p><p>“God, yes,” she whispered, reaching her hand back to twine in his coarse hair, pulling him closer. So he did it again, his mouth hot against her cool skin as he kissed behind her ear, down her neck, shifting to press more closely against her. </p><p>His hand splayed on her stomach, thumb stroking along the bottom of her ribs, rucking up her sweater so that it rested against his wrist and arm. Inhaling sharply at the sensation of his hand against her skin, she moved helplessly against him, unable to find purchase, aching to feel his skin against hers. The foil blanket rustled as she slid her hand between them, tugging at his shirt, trying to pull it free from his waistband. She grunted in frustration and he released her, leaning back to shuck his shirt swiftly, before helping her untangle her arms from her sweater. </p><p>As she settled back against him, the hair on his chest scratched softly against the skin of her back. She wiggled a little, enjoying the novelty and intimacy of the sensation. He groaned, nipping her ear again, the hard length of him pressing insistently against her backside.</p><p>“God, Robin,” he said hoarsely, his breath hot against her neck. “This isn’t how I imagined we’d…” He trailed off, resuming his attentions to the skin of her neck, pulling her back against him, his hands smoothing  across her stomach.</p><p>“You imagined this?” she asked breathlessly, closing her eyes in an effort to hold herself together as her head spun with his caresses. He hummed an affirmation into the crook of her shoulder. “What did—how—” his tongue caressed the skin behind her ear, and she lost the thread entirely, a strangled moan escaping her lips as she arched back into him, her fingers tightening in his hair.</p><p>“I imagined…” One hand trailed up from her stomach,  cupping her breast gently through the cotton of her bra as she sighed her approval, her eyes fluttering shut. “A bit more room, for a start,” he said wryly.</p><p>She grinned into the darkness, pressing her bottom against his length. “I don’t know. It’s quite cozy in here, really.”</p><p>He grunted, one arm holding her tightly against him as the other explored her, his lips and teeth occupied with the soft skin of her shoulder as he drew a soft, mewling moan from her throat. The temperature beneath the foil blanket was rising sharply, and Strike could feel beads of sweat breaking out on his back and breastbone.</p><p>“Tell me more,” Robin gasped, and it took a moment for the request to filter through the exquisite feeling of her skin against his.</p><p>“More?”</p><p>“About what you imagined,” Robin said, her curiosity a thin thread to which she was clinging in a vain attempt to stop herself from being swept away completely by the flood of sensation unleashed by his lips and hands. “Where were we?”</p><p>“My bed, usually.” </p><p>“Very creative.”</p><p>“Well, we’d start off in the office, see,” he explained, as he kissed the thin skin at the hinge of her jaw. “When I kissed you. Then we’d go upstairs. Convenient,” he said with a hint of a shrug.  “Sometimes, though, we wouldn’t make it to the bed,” he added, his voice husky, and a sudden vision of herself perched on the desk that they shared, wrapped around Strike as he drove into her, filled Robin’s mind.</p><p>“Bed. Right.” Robin filed the vision away in her mind to revisit, and focused on the way his thumb was swirling around and around her still covered nipple, as it hardened in need. “What then?”</p><p>“I’d undress you. Slowly,” he whispered. “Run my hands over your skin… through your hair. Wouldn’t stop kissing you, though. I’ve waited for you too long to stop.” </p><p>As if in illustration, he let his lips linger where they were caressing the spot behind her ear he’d discovered, the one that made her shiver in delight.</p><p> “I’d be able to see you, too,” he added. “That’s another thing.”</p><p>“Lights on, then?” she managed as he pinched her lightly through the cotton.</p><p>“Yes, the lights are bloody on,” he growled, squeezing his hand at her waist. “I’d kiss my way down your body. Taste every single inch of you.” His other hand pulled the cup of the bra down, plumping her breast over it, so that he could tease and stroke her nipple. </p><p>“Take it off,” she gasped. He moved his hands off her skin and behind her to fumble with the clasp as she leaned forward, the sharp chill of the air against her skin as the blanket slipped down raising goosebumps on her skin, and then the clasp was free and she was shrugging off her bra and Strike was pulling her back into his warmth, one big hand cupping her breast, his thumb and finger finding her pebbled nipple and rolling it between them sending rippling sparks of pleasure over her skin.</p><p>“Corm—” she keened, as he mouthed at her jaw. She twisted her head around, ignoring the twinge in her neck at the awkward angle, desperate to taste him again. Her lips met the smooth skin on his cheekbone, as she struggled to find his mouth where it roamed over her neck and cheek, nibbling her earlobe, then sliding around to press against hers. With a soft sigh, she opened her lips, inviting him in, and he accepted with a heady groan, desire and need in every luscious nudge and intoxicating caress of tongue against tongue, lip against lip. </p><p>“Can I—?” he mumbled against her lips, running a thumb under the waistband of her jeans. </p><p>Beyond the power of coherent speech, Robin simply nodded and pulled his mouth back to hers, sliding her tongue against his as he reached down to pop open the button of her jeans and pull down the zipper; she shimmied awkwardly, unwilling to break their kiss as she shoved at her jeans and knickers, pushing them down just enough for—</p><p>His hand slipped down to cup her, his thick fingers sliding over her folds, feeling the moisture gathered there, and she jerked back against him, her head falling forward at the sudden shock of pleasure. He stroked her gently, carefully at first, guided by her soft groans, by the grip of her clenched fingers and her stuttering breath as he found a particularly sensitive spot.</p><p>Strike’s movements were sure, practiced; Robin had never before been driven so rapidly to the edge, and soon she was clutching helplessly to his arm, feeling his muscles flex under her hands</p><p>“Oh,” she whimpered. “Feels—so good.”</p><p>“I imagined my mouth on you,” he said, in a hungry growl, his breath hot against her ear, the pads of his fingers pressing firm circles over her clit, a steady rhythm building until her legs were clenched and shaking and her cries of pleasure became ragged, incoherent. “I imagined burying my head between your legs and devouring you, running my tongue over you until you screamed my name, until you—”</p><p>She stiffened against him, moaning, her head falling back onto his shoulder and the blood pounding in her ears as she splintered apart under his hands.</p><p>“Yeah," he breathed as he stroked the sweat-slick skin pressed against him, her fingers still gripping his arm as he felt the flutters and tremors of her climax beginning to ease. "Just like that." </p><p>Robin’s breath was loud and panting in the silence of the truck as she lay dazed, her heart pounding, in the solid warmth of Strike’s arms. His fingers stroked her gently, lightly, across her stomach as she gathered herself back together. She inhaled deeply, the faint trace of Benson &amp; Hedges underneath the enveloping cloud of sweat and musk a familiar comfort.</p><p>“That was…” She started, and then trailed off, unable to find the words; but Strike seemed to understand her without them as he huffed in contentment against her neck, his hands roaming slowly over her skin.</p><p>She could feel his erection pressing against her, through the fabric of his slacks. He didn’t seem to be in a rush to do anything about it—he was caressing her lightly, his lips soft against her, his hips held still, apparently content to take his time.</p><p>Robin twisted her arm around behind her, feeling blindly; she was rewarded with a hiss and a jerk of his hips as her finger brushed along his length. She repeated the movement, and he groaned something incomprehensible into her hair.</p><p>“I want you,” she murmured, her fingers twitching against him, and it was true. He’d just given her the most powerful orgasm she’d had in—well. She wasn’t quite sure how long. But rather than satisfying her, it had only left her craving more, whetted her appetite so that all she could think of was getting closer to him, of climbing that peak again, of having him drive her to it.</p><p>“Yeah?” he breathed, and she nodded blindly. He jerked one of his hands away and she felt him behind her fumbling with his slacks, heard the jangle of his belt buckle. With one hand still firmly clutching his arm against her, Robin reached down with the other, pushing and kicking at her jeans until her legs were free, and then she felt the slide of him against her folds from behind her, smooth and hard, and whimpered. </p><p>His hand was on her thigh, big and rough but gentle at the same time, as he guided her leg back to rest over his, curling around her, his mouth at her ear once more, his breath hot against her skin. His cock was sliding against her, her arms tangled in his as he held her tightly against his chest.</p><p>“You sure?” He panted raggedly in her ear, and in answer she pressed her arse into him, her hand finding its grip in his hair again, tugging at him desperately as he reached down to position himself against her and then pressed forward, slowly, carefully sliding into her as she gasped out her pleasure.</p><p>Strike paused, taking a shuddering breath, his jaw tight and his cock pulsing where it was buried in Robin. She was so wet, so warm, so tight around him; he could smell and taste nothing but her, his world narrowed down to the sweet, sharp pain of her nails digging into his arms and the sound of her moans as he rocked into her. He couldn’t quite get the right leverage, wedged together as they were in the tiny, cramped space, and it was a maddening delight to thrust slowly, shallowly into her, grinding his hips against hers, straining to get closer, driven by her shuddering moans, the way she gasped his name.</p><p>She had liked him talking, earlier; so he kept up a stream of worship as he fucked her, whispering into her skin how perfect she was, how beautiful, how much he’d wanted this, for how long, how amazing she felt wrapped around him, how desperately he wanted to bury his cock even deeper inside of her, awe and lust and love pouring out of him in strangled gasps until she was shaking in his arms and the tension was building in the base of his spine, his balls tight with it, and he was hiking her leg up higher over his hip as she braced herself against his arms, pushing down into him. He wanted desperately to feel more of her, to feel every atom of her, but unwilling to part a single inch of his skin from hers, he simply clenched her against him and rutted into her, groaning.</p><p>The foil blanket had slipped down around them but neither had noticed, the fever between them burning too hot for the cold air to temper. Strike untangled one of his hands from Robin’s, slipped it down to where they were joined, pressing against her clit as he ground into her and she keened, clenching around him as he pulsed into her, white hot stars busting behind his eyes.</p><p>——</p><p>Sam Barclay climbed out of his car, leaving the door open and his keys in the ignition, his headlights beaming on the dark and silent Land Rover. There was no sign of Strike or Robin; they must’ve hunkered down to stay warm, he mused, as he pushed his way through the snow drifts. The blizzard had stopped, but it was colder than ever, the night air crisp and bright with the moonlight reflecting off the snow.</p><p>Reaching the Land Rover, he grabbed hold of the back door and yanked it open.</p><p>“Hurry up, it’s cold as a witch’s—” </p><p>It took a moment for his mind to comprehend what his eyes were seeing: a tangle of limbs and bare flesh, a hairy arm and smooth, pale skin, a scrap of some silver reflecting the headlights back at him.</p><p>“Jesus Christ,” he blurted before he could stop himself, and in the moment before he slammed the door shut, Robin’s eyes had opened to land on his, a moment of incomprehension turning to abject horror, her mouth falling open, and the image of Strike’s face over her shoulder, eyes screwed tight and mouth slack in ecstacy, had seared itself into his brain.</p><p>——</p><p>“Shit. <em> Shit.</em>” </p><p>Robin had lunged out of Strike’s embrace before his brain, still foggy with the best orgasm he’d had in years, could catch up to what had just happened. He yelped as the cold air outside of their cocoon hit a part of him that had, until moments ago, been <em> very </em> warm.</p><p>“What—” he began, watching her blankly as she scrambled on the cold metal floor of the Land Rover for her clothes; and then he realized that he could see her, properly, that she was being cast into relief by the bright headlights shining through the back windows of the car, and then the memory of a shout and a slamming door percolated into his rapidly clearing mind.</p><p>“<em>Fucking </em> Barclay,” he groaned, covering his face with one big hairy hand, inwardly cursing the day he’d hired the man. How the hell could such a decent detective have such a bloody rotten sense of timing?</p><p>Robin was breathing harshly as she struggled into her jeans, her hair hanging over her face. Strike propped himself up on his elbow so that he could reach over to her, and brushed her hair back over her shoulder so that he could try to get a look at her expression.</p><p>“Hey. You alright?” he asked, and she whipped around to look at him with bright red cheeks and sparkling eyes.</p><p>“No, I’m not alright,” she hissed, and he could hear the tears rising in her voice. “He saw us, Cormoran!”</p><p>“Hey. Hey, it’s OK. C’mere,” he said, sitting up properly and pulling her into him. She resisted for just a moment before allowing him to wrap his arms tightly around her, burying her face in his neck as her shoulders shuddered and he whispered soothing words into her hair and stroked the soft skin of her back.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” he said softly, “it’s my fault. I shouldn’t have gotten carried away like that.”</p><p>He could feel Robin take a deep breath, and she pulled back; but he kept his arms around her, unwilling to let her go.</p><p>“No,” she said, shaking her head and wiping at her cheeks. “It wasn’t—it wasn’t just you.”</p><p>“Would you rather we hadn’t?” he asked tenderly, bringing one hand around to cradle her face, his thumb swiping tenderly over her wet cheek, and he was rewarded with a watery chuckle and a tremulous smile.</p><p>“No,” she admitted sheepishly, ducking her head. “No, it was...it was lovely.”</p><p>“Right then.” Strike kissed Robin on the forehead and released her, hands moving to buckle and zip his own trousers. “I’ll go talk to Barclay. Tell him he needs to learn to fucking knock.”</p><p>——</p><p>“Oh, I’m<em> sorry</em>, I didnae realize I’d have to knock on a car in the middle of a <em> fuckin’ snowstorm</em>!”</p><p>Strike had stumped down from the back of the Land Rover, slamming the door behind him, irritated at the prospect of an awkward conversation with an employee, angered that he and Robin had been interrupted, that they hadn’t been able to enjoy the sweet afterglow together. Perhaps, he thought, he might have been too aggressively confrontational in suggesting that Barclay forget whatever it was that he thought he’d seen; but he couldn’t quite bring himself to care.</p><p>“How the fuck am I supposed to unsee that, Strike?” Barclay was agitated, running a hand through his short hair as he turned away towards the still-running car.</p><p>“Figure out a way,” Strike snapped, “Robin’s embarrassed enough, she doesn’t need you—”</p><p>“Doesnae need me <em> what</em>?” Barclay asked hotly. “You cannae think I’d give the lass grief over it, can ye? Christ.”</p><p>“Well...good,” Strike said, mollified. They lapsed into silence. Strike pulled out a cigarette and lit it as they waited for Robin to emerge from the back of the silent Land Rover, the tension between them slowly easing as the minutes stretched. Barclay stamped his feet in the snow to warm them. Strike smoked. Eventually, Barclay cleared his throat.</p><p>“Doesnae mean I won’t give <em> you </em>grief over it, mind,” the Scot said, his lips twitching against a wicked grin.</p><p>Strike shot him a repressive glare over the glowing ember of his smoke. Barclay, undeterred, continued, “I ken the snow is romantic and all, but <em> how exactly </em>does the foil—”</p><p>“Oi—” Strike growled, but was interrupted by the door of the Land Rover opening and Robin climbing out, only slightly rumpled; clearly she had taken the time to smooth down the hair that Strike had thoroughly mussed, and for a moment his breath caught in his chest as he was transported back to the feeling of her skin sliding against his, her hands tangled tightly in his curls as he sank into her... </p><p>He dropped his cigarette into the snow and buried his chilly hands in his pockets.</p><p>“Hello, Sam,” Robin said brightly, clearly having decided to pretend as though nothing had happened. “Thanks so much for driving up. The radiator’s completely shot.”</p><p>“Nae problem at all,” Barclay said dryly, and then, seemingly unable to resist, added, “Sorry it took so long. Hope ye weren’t <em> too </em> bored, waitin’.”</p><p>Strike glared at Barclay over the car door, which he was holding open for Robin, who gave no sign that she’d heard, but whose cheeks were pink as she climbed into the car. Strike caught her hand in his and squeezed it, waiting until she looked back at him, smiling; and then he lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a brief, chaste kiss to the back of it, before he shut the door and slid into the front seat so that they could head home.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Exposition? Any kind of understanding of how cars work? Not in this house baby, it's CHRISTMAS!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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